


Bad Impressions

by hurrian_hymn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempt at Humor, Banter, Drama, F/M, Light Angst, One Shot Collection, POV Hermione Granger, POV Tom Riddle, Rivalry, Romance, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurrian_hymn/pseuds/hurrian_hymn
Summary: "She takes a deep breath, fighting the uncontrollable urge to curse him off his feet. If looks can kill, she knows he would not be standing so arrogantly in front of her right now."A collection of Tomione one-shots in which Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle are academic rivals before anything else.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 63
Kudos: 208





	1. Library Book

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I haven't written fan fiction in years, and my rusty writing skills will probably show. I apologise to my readers of the LoK/AtlA fandom for not updating Radiance, but I'm not involved in the fandom anymore (will -maybe- get back into in the future, but don't take my word).
> 
> Anyway, Tomione fans, I hope you enjoy this.

Hermione sets out her writing equipment on the table, being careful not to crease the edges of the rolled parchments. Textbooks, ink bottle and quill in place, and with a quick _scourgify_ of the chair covered in some unknown food substances, she takes a seat at the table.

She has been studying for weeks now in preparation for her O.W.L.s, using whatever free time she has when not in class, performing prefect duties, or with her few close friends to catch up on her studies in the library. The library was, as it has always been, her safety and refuge, the one place she feels at most ease and within her element.

The scent of ageing books keep her calm on days when the pressure is just too much to handle. Including the days when her housemate's silly antics disrupt her quiet reading time in the common room or the Great Hall. Even Harry and Ron frazzle her nerves at times, especially when they do not take their studies with the same importance as her. But it has never deterred Hermione, because she is self-sufficient, and for the most part can manage her work without any assistance from others. If her peers do not understand the significance of their studies, well, that is their own issue, there is only so much she can do to help them. It does not, however, prevent her from checking over their homework and assignments, she still wants them to at least achieve passing marks. And feel secure about herself and her abilities afterwards, of course.

Currently, she's working on a detailed text translation for Ancient Runes. The passage is difficult in particular, it focuses on cryptic messages revealed in the magick caves near the Black Sea. She chews the end of her quill, deep in thoughts on exactly which numbers the symbols for a Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon and Horned Serpent translate into. _Would they be 9 and 13 or?—_

She remembers there's a textbook which covers the classification on magical creatures in runes, with a chapter in specific about magick caves. It's titled _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms,_ and she knows the library holds a copy of it. She feels proud about that fact, because at the moment there was no one else who knew the library's content as much as she did. Madam Pince, however, was about as helpful in finding and recommending books as the moths settled in the dusty alcoves of the ceiling. But Hermione has learnt how to search the library properly after coming across a passage in _Hogwarts: A History._

She taps her wand in mid-air to materialise a roll of vellum listed with every textbook, scroll, and various other resources held in the library. Flicking her wand upwards on the roll, she reaches the section on Ancient Runes and finds the title of her book and its location. _Bingo_, she muses. Without any further delays, and her wand guiding the way, she strolls over to the designated shelf, clutching her robe closer to ward off the slight chill dispersed throughout the library.

She arrives at her destination in a short while, stopping at the narrow bookshelf, which held only single rows of books on each shelf. Her wand signals with a glow towards a broad, indigo spine crammed in the shelf, the title embossed in flecking silver letters. The book is placed just above her eye-level, and so she places her wand back into the pocket of her robe.

Standing on tip-toes, her hands reach out to grab hold of the book, fingers digging into each side. She pulls at the book, but it doesn't budge. Thinking that perhaps it was stuck in place because of its weight, she tugs again, only for it to pull back into the shelf, going further back than its original position. _"What in the name of Merlin?"_ She mutters to herself, and deduces that the book may be jinxed to play a silly prank on whoever tries to hold it. Despite that, she pulls at the book again, and is about to draw out her wand before she hears a voice from the other side of the bookshelf.

"It would be courteous of you to let go of the book, now."

The voice-deep, male, is vaguely familiar, but she cannot quite place whose it was, and her view is obstructed from the rows and columns of textbooks. Well, so much for going over the anti-jinx spells in her mind. Now she is just annoyed.

"I'm sorry, but I was here first, and so I ought to think _you_ should let go of it, thanks." Her hands were still gripping the book firmly.

"I don't think so," he replies nonchalantly. His voice is familiar in an irritating way but she just cannot remember.

There is a slight rustling from the other side, before the book is pulled back _again_ with a shove, and now her patience is wearing thinner. "Stop being silly—" She yanks the book back towards herself "—clearly I was here _first_."

"It doesn't matter, my use for the textbook is greater than yours right now, Granger."

So he knows her! Then she definitely knows him, she really does, it just wasn't coming to mind. There is another tug from the other side, and her arms pull into the shelf, squished by the books on each side. Being careful not to lose her balance, she continues to hold the textbook, but the situation had become absurd and she is not one to just give up. How _insulting _of him to insinuate his needs are greater than hers!

"Let's settle this politely," voice seething, her fingers tighten around the spine again, and she makes an attempt to jerk it back, "or else I will have to resort to _other_ measures with my wand." The book doesn't budge this time.

"Go ahead."

She gapes, and pulls with as much strength she can muster but the book does not move at all. Has he placed a sticking charm? The nerve of him! In her scuffle, her robe had slipped down her arms, and she is sure her hair is looking more of a frizzy mess than usual.

"Fine, if you want to resort to that—" her reprimanding words are cut off as the textbooks on each side of her arms vanish, and then the book was out of her grasp just as she catches hold of the shelf to keep support.

And there, through the now-visible shelf, in his pristine robes and _stupid_ perfect hair, and stupid_, stupid_ conceited grin stood Tom _bloody_ Riddle.

All she wants, right at the moment, was for him to _choke_ on his emerald and silver striped tie which was not holding a single crease and which was still, stupidly, _neatly_ in place. She wishes she had cast a stinging hex if she knew right from the start it was _him_ she was quarrelling over.

"How—how _dare_ you steal my book from me!" She stands back, and her wand is in her fist now, but she hasn't pointed it towards him just yet.

His eyes flicker towards her wand and he raises a single, dark brow.

She remembers then that Madam Pince can hover over to them in any minute if she hears the commotion. But oh, it was maddeningly difficult to control her sensibilities around someone like _him_!

"_Steal_? _Your_ book? Now you're being even more foolish," he rebukes, adjusting _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms _securely under his arm. "Furthermore, if your ingenious self doesn't know already, I'm taking my N.E.W.T.s. next year, which grants me first preference access to all the resources in the library," he gestures lazily with his free hand towards the thousands of decrepit books around them, some which have not been opened in decades.

She takes a deep breath, fighting the uncontrollable urge to curse him off his feet. If looks can kill, she knows he would not be standing so arrogantly in front of her right now. Riddle is an anomaly to her, because she knows, despite her reservations, that he is the most intelligent wizard in the school, a prodigy, in fact. And although he is a grade above her, she has been trying to top his marks every year, succeeding to do so in some subjects but not quite successful in others. He received 12 O.W.L.s last year, and she is determined to achieve the same or if not better, marks than him.

"This is unfair, Riddle," she replies with barely contained resignation, folding down the sleeves of her robes, "only moments before I searched this textbook up. How is it that you just _happen_ to come across the same book at the same time?" She crosses her arms, hiding her wand into her sleeve but still holding onto it.

"I ought to be asking you the same question. My precise search bought me here," with a tap of his wand he reveals the same vellum scroll she had been using, "and if you look _closely_, Granger, nowhere does it state your name and ownership of the book." Another tap and the scroll disappears.

So much for thinking she was the sole individual aware of the scroll's usage. Most of the students were left with Madame Pince's half-hearted citations, and never bothered to utilise the library's complete search features. But _of course,_ Tom Riddle knew how to _read,_ he knew not just to skim through a textbook for Potions' homework and then shut it away, and of course, he has read _many_ texts, just as she has since forever.

"Well I'll have you know that my _precise_ search _also_ bought me here," she counters, and for good measure, she taps the scroll into existence for a brief moment as well. He has to know he's not the only one capable of performing complex library spells. "My name doesn't need to be written on here, Riddle, but I have just as much've a right to borrow that book."

"Please, not with that 'self-righteous' talk," he replies with an eye-roll, and moves away from the shelf until he is at her side and standing in front of her. "As I've mentioned already, my use for the textbook is greater."

"You!—You're being incredibly unfair! Has no one ever taught you that your 'wants' aren't 'greater than others'?"

"Oh, _I'm_ _sorry_. They are in fact the greatest above everyone, but maybe," he pauses, as though weighing his words, "maybe not more than yours," and he gives her that insipid, smug smile again, and she loathes his attempt at sarcasm.

"Very funny, Riddle, but I'm not buying it," she retorts, hoping her words convey enough annoyance. He has to be aware, at every moment, of just how much she dislikes him. "And I don't think you actually care about whether or not I can have the book, I think you just want to put me down."

He tilts his head, appraising her words, but otherwise does not reply straightaway. She was expecting a sharp jibe in response, but now he was just…staring at her. And she-she wasn't expecting this, and she knows he's always so good at entrancing everyone in his company, but _Merlin_, why is he still _looking_? Has he forgotten how to talk or what?—_Can't he just turn away_?

"Is that really what you think of me, Hermione?"

She feels her neck heat up, reaching her ears, and the flayed edges of the textbooks were suddenly more interesting. _Oh no._ Damn Riddle and damn his gold-spun words.

Unlike her 'know-it-all' self, Riddle was actually likeable amongst everyone. Because unlike her, he had a knack for smooth-talking and putting on a charming front towards all those he met. He held the reputation of being a 'poor but brilliant boy' who grew up with a single mother with limited resources. Truly, everyone was bewitched by him and his moronic manners and 'politeness'—_ugh. _Even Harry and Ron had remarked on how 'nice' he was—"Really Hermione, we know you're both at odds with each other after that one time, but he isn't all that bad," Harry had said between spoonfuls of treacle tart at dinner, after Ron decided to play a game of 'who's Hogwart's biggest swot?' Ron elaborated that despite being from the same house, Riddle was a contrast to the insolent and crass tendencies of Draco Malfoy.

But she was never one—or used to be, until _that_ incident-to buy into his charm. It reminded her of Honeyduke's Fudge Flies, sickeningly sweet and just as gross. (And it was a while before she forgave Ron for pranking her with those chocolate coated flies in Halloween during their third year). Tom Riddle, however, was adept at confounding almost all he came into contact with.

He was such a _fake_.

So, she responds with the best when under such duress, when experiencing an unaccountable act of attentiveness, that she knows, is undoubtedly filled with nefarious intentions.

"How much longer are you going to fake your act, Riddle?" She snaps, bitterly. He narrows his eyes at her and looks away (_thankfully_), although he shows no other outwards sign of being vexed at her accusation. But she isn't done yet. "Do you really think you can get me to—as in, _persuade_ me to fall for your words? Because it's not working, and—"

"Okay, truce," he stops her mid-sentence, holding up a hand and ignoring her criticisms. "Let's settle on an agreement—

"—I don't want to agree on anything with you."

He shrugs, appearing unbothered by her retort."I'm offering you an incentive, unless you're more than happy to let go of this book for the remainder of this semester."

He has her then. She _needs_ the book, after all. How else is she supposed to complete her assignment, receive top marks, and in effect, beat Riddle in her O.W.L.s. this year?

"Fine," she quips, and flicks a stray curl from her forehead. His eyes follow her movement. "But I will only agree on _fair_ terms, nothing less." _There_.

"Sure," he looks pleased with her admonition. "As easy it is for me to keep hold of this book for weeks on ahead, I'll let you borrow it from me next week. And I hardly doubt that your assignment is due so soon."

"Even if that's true, it's still quite unfair that you snatched it off me." She pulls a thread from the sleeve of her robe, snagging it off. She cannot give him any further sense of satisfaction, no matter if he was correct in knowing that her assignment was not due for several days, in fact.

"Not unfair, you were just unlucky," he replies, leaning back against the bookshelf with a hand in his pocket and looking down on her, triumph curled on his lips.

Not wanting to spend another minute longer in his unpleasant and aggravating company, Hermione strides off, keeping her posture straight to maintain her dignity. She still wishes she had hexed him, thereby taking her rightful hold of the textbook, and thereby not allowing him any sense of victory over her. She does not think about why he asked her _that_ question, because if he's that smart, he should already _know_ what she thinks of him and _why. _It wasn't like a complicated transfiguration spell that he couldn't've worked out the first time. She also doesn't think about how he said her first name, because she doesn't care. At all.

"Next week, same time. Remember," she hears Riddle say behind her. But she does not look back, and instead continues to walk away. She doesn't care.

_And upon Merlin, she will get back at him._


	2. Quidditch Practice

“And that’s another goal for Gryffindor!”

“Boo!”

Lee Jordan announces the overall scores of the teams through the cheers and booing from the small crowd in the stands. A spectre of scarlet and gold robes spin in the air as the team players clap hands, before swerving away to get back into their positions. Meanwhile, the Slytherin players huddle close, discussing their next manoeuvres to overcome their opposing team. The chase continues in the air, with both teams dodging bludgers and trying to throw the Quaffle through the hoops. Angelina Johnson scores yet another goal for Gryffindor, and there’s more cheering from the Gryffindor supporters.

Tom, however, is currently lying down on the unbarred grass field at the far end of the pitch. Arm propped behind his back, and an open textbook splayed carelessly across his face, he recounts for the umpteenth time as to why he agreed to watch the Quidditch training match. He has not been forced to join the team(a situation he would’ve never being able to comprehend), but to just view the brawny spectacle from a distance. As Draco had said—pleaded, actually, “Just sit there and watch us, give us the morale boost for once, Riddle? Can’t let Potter one-up me again.” And so he agreed, begrudgingly, only to stop his pestering.

But Quidditch has never appealed to him, and he would much rather spend his free time pursuing more useful activities such as revising for his N.E.W.T.s. Draco may have forced him to sit out here, but he fails to see how his presence is achieving anything for his house team’s ‘morale’. Not that he hasn’t been able to incite them to congratulatory pat-on-backs before. He only has to speak a few words during their study groups and debating sessions with the other houses, and he has them on his side. He is acutely aware of the effects of his mannerisms upon others, and he is aware also, of how to use that to his advantage. But right now it was useless, and therefore a waste of his time.

“Gryffindor is leading the score!” Bellows Lee’s voice from the tower. “They’re showing us time and time again how they live up to their reputation as fierce lions!” There was another round of cheers from the Gryffindor players and the spectators, intermingled with some swearing from the Slytherins.

Tom scoffs, and places a free hand on his book, the pages pressing against his forehead. This game was dumb and senseless. It was just another boorish competition, really, between the rival houses. A tough and rumble row of who had the biggest ego. And while the Gryffindors truly were air-headed imbeciles, the other houses never passed an opportunity to overpower the others either, including his own. 

“Slytherin takes goal! Finally a win for our green-team!”

Tom looks up from under his book to the shouts of joy from the Slytherin players, and a string of creative insults from Blaise Zabini are hurled towards the Gryffindor team. He also hears Draco’s _“Take that will you, Potty and Weaselbee!”_ and watches his form spin through the air while the players take a break, touching the ground on their broomsticks.

Well, at least his house players finally showed their competence. Although, how much longer is it going to last? It’s been a joke of a practice match so far, and his peers are proving to be a lot less proficient than usual. He won’t be here for the proper match if it’s a rehearse of today, no thanks. And right now he was so _bored_, he might as well go to the library, or practice spells in an empty classroom in the dungeons. That way no one will disturb him. He’ll make his way up, soon. With that final thought, he places the book back on his face and shuts his eyes.

“Hermione!”

His attention piqued, Tom peers from under his book. Not because it’s specifically her who was called out, but rather because Potter had just yelled her name out without preamble. After all, there is no one else on the pitch beside the players, and all spectators are seated in the towers. He hadn’t noticed her sitting there, he was sure. 

He watches her then as she walks across the pitch. Her ridiculous hair is tied up in a bun but the ribbon is failing to keep it contained. She’s carrying a satchel heavy with textbooks, slung over her shoulder and held with both hands. Her skirt is of regulation length and her shoes are worn and practical. But there’s tension in her shoulders and her eyes seem wary, as though she doesn’t want to be here. Which makes sense, of course, because he knows she never rides a broomstick outside of compulsory classes, let alone shown any interest towards joining the Quidditch team. Potter and Weasley must’ve forced her to come down here, too.

She meets up with the two boys and exchanges some greetings, which he can’t hear. They’re talking with each other, and she’s smiling at them, genuinely, _warmly_, and he feels the corners of his mouth twitch down.

Tom understands social etiquette and he knows how to interact with his peers and teachers, and he knows what pleases or displeases someone. To be accepted by the crowd you need to know as much, especially in consideration of his heritage and upbringing. And especially, being in Slytherin, you can never show any sign of weakness that revolves around your ancestry. To socially strengthen oneself is much safer, and leaves little conspicuousness to your heritage. His mother is a witch, and he doesn’t know his father, that’s all there is to be said. It’s why he maintains connections with the Malfoys and other pureblooded wizarding families, even if certain family members do not make the most pleasant company.

But seeing her—Hermione_, _no_, Granger—_like this, he doesn’t understand how her simple-minded friends can keep her attention without so much as lifting a finger or twisting a word. They’re not even—_intelligent_ like her, at least academically, to put it mildly. And even more perplexing, is that they use her for their own academic purposes, as though their friendship is built upon their dependence of her. He can never tolerate someone using him like that. He assists his peers when needed, but keeps it limited, instead passing some encouraging sentiments, and they leave him alone. Her Gryffindor self doesn’t know how to say ‘no’ to those close to her, but her Gryffindor self is just as capable of throwing lots of big, capital letter ‘NO’s’ his way.

And yet, she fawns over the two and looks at them as if they’re the greatest wizards she’s ever met. She looks at them the way most people look at _him_, but she never spares that glance his way.

Perhaps he’s being inconsiderate, and he should account for the whole drama that occurred during his third year. He hadn’t meant to say what he did to her during the competition, he really hadn’t, it just sort of, _happened_. It wasn’t even a derogative insult that she hears from Malfoy, and dammit he even tried to _apologise_ to her. However, it has been a few years to that incident, surely one cannot keep a grudge for that long. But then, he realises, he knows how to keep a grudge, too. But still, _still_, she shouldn’t have just—

And then he stops his irrational, rambling thoughts and questions _why he even cares_. It doesn’t matter to him what Granger thinks of him, he just kind of enjoys vexing her, that’s all. Although she’s intelligent, sure, but also—

She was such a _spitfire_—

Without warning, Tom’s textbook disappears from his face and he blinks against the sunlight. Draco is standing over him, his book in hand. The sun behind him filters through his pale hair, making it look like he has a halo. He is anything but holy, for sure.

“Great support today, Riddle,” Draco scowls at him, thumping his Nimbus 2001 into the grass below,“you really gave us all the back-up today. Real charmer you are when you’re always bloody _reading_.”

“Draco, I’m here, and I _watched_, what more did you expect from me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe first you ought’ve kept this _shut_,” he waves the book in Tom’s face, “and secondly, joined everyone else in the stands,” he continues, dropping his broomstick and running a hand across his forehead, “even a single cheer might’ve done it, I can’t always rely on Pansy’s alone.”

Tom sighs, and places a hand against his face to ward off the sun. For Salazar’s sake, he isn’t a “Pansy Parkinson”. Draco is not stupid, but sometimes his metaphorical comparisons confused even him. He refuses to reply and fixes him with a glare, instead.

“Okay, I get it. I know you don’t do the whole ‘open motivation’ stuff,” he says, shifting on his foot and throwing the book back at Tom, which he catches, “But _Potter_, he always has his crew to support him, including the rest of the Weaselbees and that Mudblood—”

“Language, Draco, we’ve discussed this before.” The word sounded crude in contrast to his noble heritage. Draco really doesn’t care for how his speech affected his reputation, Tom thought. Even if he’s not one to go out preaching for the muggleborns, he doesn’t need to engage in open hostility. He has his own grievances with his partial muggle background, after all.

“Whatever. Just for once, Riddle, support me properly, yeah?”

“Hmm, let’s see, maybe I’ll feel sorry for you one day. In the meantime, Pansy’s ‘cheers’ should suffice you,” he jeers, sitting up now, “or how about you get your trusty sidekicks Crabbe and Goyle to rally for you instead? I’m sure they’ll be more than willing. Complete with the Malfoy family emblem poster decorated with your face. And throw in a couple of cute rosettes for fun.”

Draco glowers at him, “if you’re so keen to describe how they should dress up, I think you’re a better fit to turn up all cheery and flashy. ‘Cute’ rosettes and all.”

Tom laughs, and Draco looks at him in exasperation, mentioning something about him attending the final match(no questions). Broomstick in tow, he then swaggers back to the pitch for the next round of practice.

And just as he’s setting himself down on the grass again, arm behind back and the textbook at its rightful place on his face, he sees her again. Walking his way—towards him—but not _to_ him, just going past. Well, he’s not one to pass up on an opportunity, he thinks as she gets closer, shoes squelching in the shaded parts of the grass. And he notes, the way she purposely avoids looking at him, the way she _purposely_ makes a beeline to the entrance—

“Granger,” he calls out from under the book. She finally looks at him, mouth set in a frown. “Here,” he points to the spot beside him on the grass.

“Not in your dreams, Riddle.”

_Ah, yes, here we go_. She’s the perfect antidote to his boredom on this dreary afternoon. Just a means of distraction before he needs to go and complete his impending tasks. “Only for a short while, I promise I won’t make you late for class,” he replies, sitting up to place the book down beside him. He transfigures it into a rug. 

She gives an eye-roll but throws her satchel onto the rug, before sitting next to him—at an appropriate distance away, of course. “I don’t even know why I’m sitting with you. I never sit with you,” she glowers, adjusting the ribbon around her bun.

“There’s always a first time for everything,” he leans on his arm, cheek clasped in palm, to look up at her. He knows this is his best angle when lying down.

“No, I assume you want to say something important, that’s all,” she replies, clutching her satchel close. “And obviously, if you’re just going to waste my time, I’ll be on my way,” she moves, about to stand up.

“This is important. Very important, in fact,” he stops her. She mutters something he can’t hear properly, but he thought he heard the words “_self-important git.”_ Ignoring it, he continues anyway_,_“it’s related to your O.W.L.s.”

She stalls, and turns to him again, sighing as though frustrated. Is she already so fed-up with him? He’s barely said anything to her. All the more better. And if discussing anything related to studying will make his boredom dissipate, so be it.

“Speak, then. What is it about the O.W.L.s.?” she questions, tucking a curl behind her ear. It bounces out again. By now he’s positive that her hair has a mind of its own. In relation to her, it’s completely understandable.

“Well, you know the topic on Invigoration Draughts in Potions? They’re not going to be testing it this year.”

“And your source is?”

“Professor Slughorn,” he lies. His source is actually his own self. Because he’s still improvising before he needs to move onto the next tactic.

“When ever did he tell you about this, and why?”

“I innocuously gifted him a box of crystallised pineapples, and in general terms, asked him about the topics that won’t be tested in this year’s O.W.L.s., and then he just told me.” The box of crystallised pineapples was a truth. He did give out sweets to the teachers from time to time, just to keep them sweet.

She bites her lower lip, and there’s a crinkle next to her eyebrow. He has noticed it’s there when she’s deep in thought. It seems she was about to unravel the little story he’d just spun. She’s a clever witch, after all.

“I don’t recall being told anything about Invigoration Draughts in past O.W.L. exams.”

“They’ve changed certain rules in the course, modified it to make it more coherent to understand.” She doesn’t reply immediately, deep in thoughts again.

“You’re lying. There _is_ no topic on Invigoration Draughts, at all,” she fumes, cheeks turning a faint shade of red. Her hair is definitely crackling, he muses.

_Clever, indeed._

“Why do you always lie to me, Riddle?”

“Why must you always assume the worst about me, Hermione?”

“Stop that! It’s _not_ going to work, you can call everyone on personal terms in hopes to get chummy with them for your own, selfish reasons, but it’s not—it’s _never_ going to work on _me_.”

It was both amusing and infuriating how she somehow always linked every conversation back to him. Quite annoying, in retrospect, that she thought him the absolute _worst_. And that she always, _always_ found fault in his manners. “Get off your high horse, Granger, and stop thinking you’re special."

“Fine.” She stands up, satchel in hand, her expression thunderous, looking all but about to hex him.

“I’ve got the practice papers on Defence from the wizarding school of IIvermorny. They sent them to Professor Snape, who gave me a copy last year before my O.W.L.s.”

She eyes him suspiciously, clearly not believing a word he just said. “Look—” with a flick of his wand, he conjures the parchments from his bag. He had totally not placed them there in case he ever had to show her—to show-off, that is. “The papers include details for the exact procedure in producing a Patronus charm.”

“Hmm, I see,” she replies coolly, sitting down again, their previous confrontation seemingly forgotten. Her eyes are glued to the papers in focus. Who knew it was this easy to win over bookworms? But he’s not trying to charm her, this is all just a game to pass time.

They then go over the requirements for the written component of the O.W.L.s., and how the practical exam is carried out. She highlights the important sections on the sheets with her quill.

“But wait, why are you telling me all this?” She asks, closing the sheets of parchment.

“Because I’ve discussed these notes with the other students in your year, and so I thought to show them to you, as well.” Another lie, he hasn’t shown anyone these papers. She doesn’t need to know that, however.

“Well, I’ll read them in more detail during my study break. I have to go perform my prefect duties now, though.”_ Already? _He wants her to stay, but then also not care if she does or not. And anyway, he wants to irritate her some more before she leaves.

“Right, that’s why you’re wearing a badge.”

She makes a face, looking confused.“_Obviously_, it’s not like you’re not wearing one, either.”

“But Granger, are you sure that’s a _prefect_ badge you’re wearing?” He turns to face her, glancing at her badge and leaning in. She scoots back. He leans in some more.

“I think the ‘P’ stands for something else, but what can it be?” He continues, looking up at her as though it’s a conspiratorial matter. “‘Pleasant?’ ’Proper?’” He locks eyes with her and is pleased to note how her cheeks flush. “’Peach?’—”

“—‘Piss off.’ It stands for ‘Piss off, Riddle.’”

And with that eloquent closing statement, she gets up, satchel flung over shoulder with ferocity.

Face hidden in arms, covering his laughs, Tom doesn’t watch her leave. He has no regrets about calling her over, and in fact is glad he did so. He only wishes she had stayed for a while more, and be given further opportunities to raise her ire. Rage—that’s how she reacts to him, and if he was quite honest with himself, it was a refreshing attitude after all the cooing and simpering smiles from their peers. Next time however, he’ll try being more smooth—which may or may not work on her. But he’s not _personally_ invested in any of this—in her—he just likes to _annoy_ her, that’s all. Really, that was all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, let me know what you thought of this chapter! Also, send me your prompts, head canons etc., I may incorporate them in future chapters! I have a couple more ideas planned out including a scene in Diagon Alley and something for Christmas. So please let me know!


	3. Diagon Alley

Diagon Alley is bustling with witches and wizards from all over the country making their last-minute purchases before the holiday season begins, after which the alley will overflow with even more customers. Shop wares have spilled out onto the cobblestone streets, and smoke is wafting from the chimneys of specialty restaurants. Pedlars hawk their goods at passersby, hoping to make a reasonable profit from the unexpected rush of visitors.

The students of Hogwarts are on a short break, almost like a holiday, except that an accidental explosion in one of the potions room had produced a smoke so toxic and consuming that it had forced the evacuation of all the residents of the castle. Within a week’s time, the spell cleaning committee will clear up the smoke, after which the students and other occupants of the castle can return from their break. However, a week’s worth of days off is still a week’s worth of homework. All students are expected to keep up with the course outside the school, no matter the circumstances. Some classes in particular have even requested the addition of extra materials needed for their work. Which is why most of Hogwarts have gathered in Diagon Alley since the break—to buy “classwork supplies”, but also to socialise before they are back in their school routine again.

“Ron, you _need_ this equipment for Transfiguration, otherwise professor McGonagall will be _furious,_” Hermione implores, picking up a small clay pot and a handful of wax candles. She places them into his bag. She knows she frets over him often, and sometimes too much, but it’s because she cares for him as a friend. Thankfully however, gone are the days when she harboured an embarrassing crush on Ron. He makes much better company as a friend, albeit he was still prone to ticking her off, in both intentional and unintentional ways.

“Honestly Hermione she’s mental, how does she expect us to memorise all those spells in less than a week?” Ron looks at her and Harry with indignation, the latter who nods back. “Also, if it’s a break we might s’well enjoy it, I don’t want to waste all my time in a _supply_ shop.”

“It’s not difficult if you just keep trying, and a week is more than enough to remember everything.” Hermione turns over a pocket-size book on folklore spells, reading the publication date before adding it to her bag. “And besides, once we’ve bought all our supplies we can hang out properly—I mean, we’re already doing that, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, and we’ll help each other out with the spells, it won’t be so difficult then,” Harry adds in, placing the clay pot and candles into his own bag, along with a pack of wizarding cards.

“Hermione, if your definition of “hanging out” includes _waltzing_ around in _this_ sort of place—” Ron exclaims, waving his arms around, “—then you _really_ need to reconsider your idea of ‘fun’.”

She shoots him a glare, at which Harry intervenes before there’s a scuffle in the shop. “It’s okay, this isn’t bad, and like you’ve said, we’ll always have time to spare once we finish buying everything on our list. It’s not much we have to get, anyway.”

Ron turns his attention to the front of the shop. “Finally, Ginny’s here,” he announces as Ginny waves at them from the door. Harry flusters, his hand absentmindedly messing up the back of his already messy hair.

“That’s great, I’ll be off with her now to buy some bitter root extract, and expect to see you both in an hour’s time,” Hermione says, going through the check-out counter as Ginny comes over to the trio. “Also, try buying all your equipment _before_ we meet again, that way we won’t have to hang out in supply shops.” She looks pointedly at Ron, who laughs back.

“Sure, and we’ll be at Florean Fortescue’s in the meantime, did you know they’ve got a new flavour?” Harry asks, and looks over at Ron with a grin, “it’s called ‘salted caramel with pistachio.’”

“Then what are we still doing here?” Ron almost runs out the shop, with Harry in tow, who passes a quick smile to Ginny as they leave.

* * *

Ginny and Hermione enter Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, and browse the sections on glass phials and jars filled with an assortment of organic ingredients.

“You know what everyone’s saying? That the explosion at Hogwarts wasn’t an accident,” says Ginny, tapping her finger on a jar filled with roving newt eyeballs.

“Oh? Well, I guess people always need new excuses for rumours. I doubt the explosion was on purpose,” Hermione replies, reading the titled shelves. It was true though, she thought, because for many students, Hogwarts won’t be the same without any whispers in the corridors or giggles behind hands during class.

“That’s possible, although when you think about it, it’s awfully convenient for them to just send us off on a break like this. And it’s not like Dumbledore couldn’t’ve cleared all the smoke up on his own.” Ginny twirls a dandelion root in her hand, then places it back on the table in front of them.

“Maybe, but even then, our presence would look suspicious, wouldn’t it? I think Dumbledore sent us away for our own protection,” she considers carefully. Ginny’s theory did make sense on some level, because it was easier to hush up the situation by sending everyone away, and therefore prevent further interrogation by the Ministry.

“Or for someone’s protection. Whoever it was that caused the ‘accident’.”

Well, that made sense too.

“Probably.”

They move onto the latest exaggerations in the Daily Prophet, complained about the absurdity of Rita Skeeter, and joked about how funny it would be to turn her into a beetle and trap her into one of the shop’s jars. They also discussed the ongoings of school life at Hogwarts and its politics.

_“—their entertainment was pathetic, I ought to let my father know before he invites them over our place.”_

“And just look who it is, our favourite ferret has decided to make his _grand_ entrance,” Ginny declares with false merriment.

Hermione chuckles, looking towards Malfoy with his Twilfitt and Tatting brand shoes clicking on the wooden floor. She stops however when she notices the tall, familiar dark-haired figure beside him.

“Blimey, Tom’s with him, too. He’s an okay fellow though, I’d say.”

An ‘_okay fellow?_’ Not bloody well likely.

“He’s absolutely _not_, Ginny. How can someone be “okay” if they hang around Malfoy? Shows me that they’re just as much of a prejudiced blood purist. And anyway, I think it’s best we leave—”

“So soon?—”

“—yes, like, _right now_.”

Ginny looks at her curiously. “But you haven’t even bought the bitter root extract.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll get it later.”

Making sure that the ferret and his _dear_ _friend_ were away from the door, and out of their line of sight, Hermione shoulders Ginny along. They make their way from the side of the shop, pushing past the customers until they are at the cramped entrance. Ginny looks at her again, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. Out in the alley, a pedlar offers them a roasted corn on the cob, and Ginny passes over a few coins, taking one in her hand. They stroll down the alley, stepping aside to let a gaggle of children run past, before they reach a vendor selling colourful hourglasses, crystal balls and other strange ornaments.

“Say, Hermione, why exactly don’t you like Tom?” Ginny asks, and takes a bite into her corn. Hermione notes that she makes the same face as Ron when biting into food.

“I don’t like _Riddle_ because he’s an arrogant, narcissistic _twat_,” she replies brusquely, moving her shopping bag to the crook of her other arm. “He’s such a nuisance, Ginny, and you won’t _believe_ the stuff he’s said to me.”

Ginny gives a noncommittal hum, and continues to eat her corn while looking over the objects displayed on the cart. Hermione sifts through the wares and holds up a time-turner necklace replica, watching the centrepiece spin.

“I’m so flattered to be called an ‘arrogant twat’, Granger.”

Hermione freezes, her fingers still on the chain.

“Your most _kindest_ of compliments have made my day.” His words are followed by Draco’s familiar, taunting laugh. Two hissing snakes had left their den to follow them out here,_ how lovely_.

But she can’t let Riddle see that he has affected her. It doesn’t matter if he hears everything she says, including if it’s about him—and especially if it’s about him—because she’s not afraid. And she’s not one to disguise her apathy for him. In her earshot, she hears Ginny stifle a laugh. _That’s another issue she needs to sort out later._

Back straight and chin held high, Hermione turns around.

“I’m honoured that you appreciate my compliments, Riddle. I have some more if you’d like to hear.” She hopes that her words are laced with just the right amount of sharpness. Make it look she’s completely unfazed and _nice,_ just like him. And she is not, under such circumstances, to be distracted by his stupid face and the outrageously well-fitting, tailored robes, except, _except_—He’s wearing cufflinks_,_ for Merlin’s sake. Silver-studded c_ufflinks_.

“Perhaps next time,” he replies curtly, before turning towards Ginny. For a fraction of a second, his eyes had hardened and there was a twitch in his jaw, before his genial expression was back in place. _Got you_, she thought with triumph.

“Good afternoon, Ginny. I hope your day is going well?” He continues with a motioning gesture, and there’s a dull glint on his left hand—a black stone ring, she notes. Just how many trinkets had he accumulated? His Patronus was probably a Niffler, she sums up.

“Hello Tom, yes our day is going well, thanks. We were just buying some supplies for school and looking around,” Ginny responds in a good-natured manner, and Hermione wishes she can apparate them out of here already.

The last thing she wants is for Ginny to become buddies with Riddle. Malfoy however, isn’t hiding his boredom and indifference standing next to him, and thankfully doesn’t accost either of them.

“As are we. Professor Flitwick recommended I buy another copy of _The Standard Book of Spells_ for Charms. It’s the latest edition, and they’re stocking them for the coming months.”

Ginny doesn’t give a _toss_ about the ‘latest version’ of a Charms textbook, just who is he trying to kid? But of course, this was all a part of his image. That doesn’t mean his revelation isn’t important. She will most definitely grab hold of the new copy when possible.

“I think Flourish and Blotts have new copies of the text, I saw some when I passed the shop before. There’s going to be a visitor there today, too,” Ginny replies.

“I’ve heard the same, perhaps we make our way to the shop together, then?”

Arm hidden behind her shopping bag, she pinches Ginny on the arm. _No, not under any circumstance. _Ginny pinches her back, almost eliciting a yelp from her that she covers with a cough.

“Sure! I need a new diary and papyrus parchment, as well.”

_Oh she’s going to strike Ginny with her own Bat-Bogey Hex after this—_

“Excellent, let’s leave now.”

_—And push Riddle off a cliff._

* * *

Starting at the doorstep, there is a large crowd inside Flourish and Blotts. They make their way through, hurrying to reach the front, where even more people—or fans, in this case—are congregated. Tom almost steps on a plump, middle-aged witch’s foot on his way, while Draco swears after a younger boy knocks past and trips him. Granger and the Weasley girl are behind them until then, before they break off to stand in the opposite direction, closer to the front of the shop where columns of tomes have been stacked up.

As they wait, the store manager announces that the special guest will make his appearance soon. There’s a flurry of excitement amongst the crowd which—Tom notices now—is composed mostly of women and giggling schoolgirls. There are still quite a few wizards milling about, too, however. The manager makes another announcement.

“To all witches and wizards, to all the supportive fans, Flourish and Blotts present to you—Gilderoy Lockhart!”

The crowd shrieks and clap hands, and the manager has to push back a young woman trying to run up the stairs as Lockhart makes his way down.

Tom and Draco scoff at the same time. There are many things they don’t have in common, yet there are just a few that they do. And one being the unanimous agreement that Gilderoy Lockhart is a ludicrous, smarmy, _dandy_. 

Said ‘dandy’ in question is dressed in an exuberant suit with flowy robes. The peach and lime-yellow colours are almost garish. Lockhart smiles back at the crowd, but his mouth is stretched too thin and his teeth are aligned too straight. _Revolting, _Tom thinks.

Lockhart talks through his introduction which was, as the rest of him, showy and over-the-top. And possibly phoney, too (defeated the Bandon Banshee? _This_ imbecilic man? As if). Though how the dolt has managed to evade any investigation into his claims so far is beyond him. But even more baffling right now is the utter adoration he’s receiving from the mostly-female crowd. They are such fools to believe him, the whole lot of them.

Lockhart talks of yet another extravagant, most likely fake claim, followed by one of his gross, teethy smiles, and the ignorant crowd sighs.

And then without meaning to, and for no purpose at all, his eyes land on Granger.

_Granger_.

Smiling, cooing, _simpering_—

And—What is he looking at? Is this really _her_ or has she been replaced with a Polyjuice substitute?

Hands clasped in eagerness and eyes never leaving the front—

For Lockhart? Bloody _Lockhart_? The slimy, sycophantic _idiot_ whose fake talk is obvious to even the most oblivious dunderhead.

But her,_ the spitfire witch—_

Who has never, to his notice, shown such a _blatant_ act of—what? An act of what?—Optimism_—_is that the correct terminology?_—_

“I want to leave, Riddle, else I’m going to lose my damn mind listening to this clot for another minute,” Draco grumbles, shifting on his spot and cracking his knuckles.

He looks away from Granger. “We will, soon.”

Lockhart is at his desk now, waving around a comical peacock feathered quill. The crowd disperses and a group gathers around him, while the manager tries to control the feverous fans and barks out at them to form a queue. Right at the front is Granger, followed by Ginny. They place their books on the desk, and the despicable man sweeps his blonde, coiffed hair away from his forehead, before setting his palms on the desk and listening to the girls intently. They are all smiles and laughs.

Tom calculates that the reason he’s just slightly irked by Granger’s response towards Lockhart is because he expected better from her. He expected better from someone who holds intelligence and competence in high regards, of which Lockhart is neither. They have no personal connection, either, unlike the one she shares with her friends. What does she see in this foolish ‘wizard’?—if he’s even worthy enough to be called that. And if it has _anything_ to do with his—‘looks’, which are quite frankly atrocious—then he has to conclude that Granger is the most shallow witch, ever.

He knows what effects his own physical appearance has upon others. He knows how she _doesn’t_ respond to said physical appearances. Why then, is Lockhart any different?

He wants to—_throttle_ him.

“Let’s go now,” Draco says, looking disdainfully at a witch who had toppled over in the queue.

Tom nods, and they start to make their way out until he sees Granger and Ginny walking to the door. Ginny notices them and waves over at him, at which her temperamental friend turns and glowers at her. _Of course, forever displeased with him._

“Hey Tom, we’re meeting up with Harry and Ron at Florean Fortescue’s, want to join us?” She beams, looking at him expectantly as they walk out.

He’d rather not. Because if he goes with them it will probably raise suspicion on laughable and unfounded claims, and Draco wouldn’t agree, anyway. Right now he just wants to clear his mind. “Perhaps next time, I need to buy a couple of more things and then we must take our leave.”

“That’s fair, we have to do the same, actually, and were supposed to except that—” Ginny makes a show of turning to look at Granger, “Hermione here just got a bit too…_distracted_ by Mr Lockhart, so we’re already a little late.” There’s something suggestive in the way the redhead looks at him, and then at Granger.

And so he keeps his face composed, and answers with a pleasant smile. Because none of this matters to him. Granger doesn’t matter to him. And he sure as Merlin doesn’t need anyone else to assume otherwise.

Looking at Ginny and Draco and everywhere else except him, Granger sniffs, “Ginny, Mr Lockhart is a compassionate, accomplished wizard who is lucky to have made fortune as a best-selling author, it was only important for us to be present with him today.”

Her revelation—which, as though it weren’t obvious enough through her actions, causes something to shift inside of him. And before he can think, before he can even _process_, he speaks out.

“He’s also a fake, did you know that, Granger? He’s a grotesque, smarmy fake. And you’re a fool if you believe a single word of what he says.” His hands are by his sides now, the metal of the Gaunt heirloom warm on his finger.

“He’s quite unlike like you, Riddle, and it’s funny that _you’re_ lecturing me about who’s _fake—_”

“—And _you’re_ choosing to defend a fraud.”

“He’s not a fraud! Just because you—I think you’re jealous_, _yes, you’re_ jealous_ of his success and achievement, and you’re _jealous_ because you can _never_ reach that level of perfection.” Her arms are crossed, and she’s staring at him directly, so ready to _challenge_ him further.

And challenged he is. He will see to it that she understands just how preposterous her assumptions about Lockhart are.

“You really think that, do you? You _actually_ think I _care_ about that git’s fake success, fake career, and lying publications?”

“I think you do, and that’s why you’re accosting me right now.”

“I’m accosting you because I thought just a little bit higher of you.”

“Is that what this is about? _You_—thinking ‘_high_’ of me?” She gives a sarcastic laugh, and the little curl tucked behind her ear springs out as she drops her bag to the floor. “Oh this is just the _greatest_ joke in wizarding history.”

He needs to stay calm and he needs to stay in control because he doesn’t care but_ she needs to understand_—

“You supporting Lockhart is the biggest joke _right now_.”

“You know what, Riddle? You know what’s _actually_ the real joke at this moment?” She pauses, placing a hand on her hip, and sneers at him.“Your entire life.”

Right, so she really wants to go there, does she? He won’t stop then, either. He won’t be merciful.

“Just like your hair, I suppose. Untameable, unpleasant, and horrid to look at.”

She sputters, her face contorted in rage. “You leave my hair out of this!”

“You leave my life out of this!”

“Then you!—Leave _me_, then!”

He’s close to her, too close, but when had they gotten so—_close_? Because he can almost count every individual lash framing her eyes. But she’s being so bloody _infuriating_ and so damn _difficult, _and he does not care enough or at all to put up with this.

“No, you leave.”

It came out as just above a whisper. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that.

But her face changes, and she has that expression, the same one she had back in the library when he stole the book from her and said her _name_. Shall he say her name again? What will it do to her? But maybe not this time, especially now that she looks furious again.

And so their altercation continues, and insults are thrown left and right under every manner of the sun.

She does leave in the end, but not of free will, anyway. Not when her wand was drawn—his wand was drawn, too, he can remember vaguely—it seemed that was the last straw for everyone. Ginny had to drag her away, pulling her by her robes with a hand behind her neck, preventing her from trying to look back at him.

He recalls Draco dragging him away, too, although it was completely unnecessary when he thinks about it now. He has a lot more self resolve, he could’ve left on his own. It’s not like he was going to go running after her.

Regardless, he will think about his actions later.

* * *

Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle, quarrelling in the middle of Dragon Alley, was a sight which will never be forgotten by both Draco and Ginny. Neither of them had intervened throughout the duration of it, and neither of them had made a single utterance towards the two.

Instead, some time during the row, their eyes had met. It was the kind of look you exchange with a stranger when you both witness an awkward situation at your hosts’ party but don’t know how to react. No their hostilities, no matter their rivalries on personal and quidditch levels, there was a semblance of understanding—however small, passed between them.

Until it made Draco realise who exactly the hosts in question were, and exactly what implications were being laid out.

He looked back at Tom, horrified.

_“_You’ve _got_ to be bloody _kidding_ me.”

Ginny just smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a bit long, didn't mean for it to!
> 
> Dear readers, how am I going so far, especially with their characterisations? Please write me your feedback on this chapter! What did you like, what was your favourite scene/line? Let me know!
> 
> Thank you to the readers who have left kudos and commented on my story so far, much appreciated <3


	4. Christmas Prank - Part 1

"Was that the last of the mistletoe, George?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Every last twine, Fred.

"Fantastic. If you find any more of the stuff in the store rooms, sneak it out when no one's watching."

"Will do. It makes the ceiling look just like a dream though, doesn't it?"

"A dream come true for Hogwart's couple of the hour."

"It's _so_ romantic."

Fred and George chuckle, and make the finishing touches to the garlands of mistletoe hanging down from the ceiling.

"We've done a solid job."

"We'll make this their most memorable Christmas, yet."

Looking around at the decorated classroom and its extravagance one last time, the twins take their leave. The door has been warded so that only two specific individuals are able to enter the room. They have made sure that no one else will be able to enter the room, or even go near it.

The twins' laughs reverberate through the corridors as they go back to join in the castle's festivities for Christmas Eve.

* * *

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny are lounging in the Gryffindor common room, sitting in a half circle on the floor and the armchairs. Most of the students and teachers of Hogwarts have gone home to spend Christmas. However, the trio and the Weasley siblings have decided to spend Christmas at the castle together this year, the main reason being that they have simply never done so, and were curious to the festivities that took take place in their absence.

Meanwhile, Lily and James Potter, along with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, were spending Christmas at the burrow with Mr and Mrs Weasley. Carrying notes, owls had arrived to the castle the moment their children spoke of their plans to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, with explicit instructions to behave well and not cause any trouble for anyone (with emphasis on the twins' behaviour). Hermione's parents have embarked on an overseas trip for research, and so it gave her all the more reason to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas this year, too.

"Who wants to watch my egg-nog trick? I bet none of you can attempt it," Ron inquires, holding up a glass of creamy egg-nog.

"No one cares about your dumb trick, Ron," Ginny replies, chuckling as he swats her arm away with a _'sod-off'_. Harry laughs from his place on the couch where he's lying down with Mrs Weasley's hand-knitted sweater across his face. He had taken it off when his own cup of egg-nog had spilled over, but didn't bother wearing it back on again.

Hermione leans against the back of the couch, "I'll see it, but if it's a messy 'trick' then never mind." She props a book in her lap and takes a sip from her cup of hot chocolate. This was her time to relax and wind down from their hectic day—or week, more accurately. They had spent several days putting up Christmas decorations and setting up their own tree in the common room.

"It's alright, we'll have a look Ron," says Harry, peeking from under his sweater, "I think I've seen an egg-nog trick before, though. Sirius performed one at Christmas two years ago."

"This one is different, and you'll all regret laughing at me after this," Ron answers, holding the glass in his hand steadily.

"It's okay, we regret everything about you already," Ginny teases, passing over a plate of biscuits to Hermione. Harry guffaws some more.

Ron turns to look at Harry. "You're finding this all awfully funny, Harry, let's see you do this trick and then we'll see what's so hilarious."

Hermione looks pointedly between Ginny and Harry. She has been suspecting there was something going on between the two, but now wasn't the time to mention anything. She shakes her head and looks at Ron. "Don't worry about it, Ron, it's just the Christmas spirit at this time of the year. Really makes us all giddy with happiness, you know?"

Ron nods, and with his wand poised over his glass, he mutters an incantation. The cup of egg-nog changes its colour, it first turns into a bright green, then blue, and then settles on a bubblegum pink.

No one responds, and Harry gives a cough.

It was an underwhelming spell to say the least, Hermione thought, and now Ron was on the spot yet again.

"Well?" Ron questions, searching their faces.

"_That_, dear brother, was the lamest trick I've seen in my whole life," Ginny remarks after some finality.

Ron shifts on his spot and places the glass down with a _clunk_, "If you lot can't appreciate it, I'll show others who will."

"Show who? All of, what, the three people in this castle right now?" Ginny mocks, dodging the Christmas cracker sent flying her way by Ron.

"Add an extra two!" Exclaims Fred's voice as he enters the common room with George. They make their way over to the hearth and warm their hands. Hermione notices there are paint marks and cuts on their palms, but doesn't comment. They were always busy testing their silly joke products.

"But anyway, apart from our brilliant selves, the current lodgers of this castle include Cormac McLaggen, Millicent Bulstrode, and Blaise Zabini, amongst some other unsavoury folks," says George, facing the occupants of the common room.

"I've heard Tom's here, too—" Harry starts, but George cuts him off.

"—I take back what I said, Tom Riddle is not unsavoury, Tom is in fact a great guy—"

"—Tom Riddle is simply _amazing,"_ Fred quips merrily, going over to the Christmas tree to hang up a bauble painted with Dumbledore's face. From his spot, he turns just enough to wink at Hermione.

She stares at him, and blinks. What was the meaning of the wink? Why give one to _her_? She had made no mention of anything regarding herself and Riddle, and certainly not about the debacle back in Diagon Alley. Maybe he winked because she's the only other girl in this room, and the whole school knows that practically everyone is smitten for Riddle, except for herself, of course. She chooses to ignore the wink and not think too much of it.

"Right. So, apparently, Zabini didn't go home this year, he has some stuff going on, so Tom stayed with him," Harry continues. The grandfather clock strikes eight and its ring echoes around the room.

Ginny nods and sips on her egg-nog. "That's thoughtful of Tom. A true friend stays by your side through everything, and an even truer friend gives you all their unconditional support," she turns to Hermione, and lowers her voice. "_Don't you agree, Hermione?_"

"Shut _up_, Ginny," she hisses back.

"Shut who up?" George questions with zest as he plops onto a squashy armchair. Fred follows behind and sits down against the cushioned leg.

"Yeah, tell us who needs to shut up, we're here to help—"

Hermione groans in frustration and hides her face into her book. "It's no one, and not related to what you're all talking about." She did not want to put up with any of their antics, lest not the ones concerning her, and lest not the ones concerning _him_.

"All good then, Hermione. And hey, you still haven't tried any of our products yet," George mentions, grabbing a biscuit off the plate. She replies with a '_no thanks'_ and continues to read her book. Or at least tries to. It was becoming difficult to do so with the turn their conversation was taking.

"Hey, Zabini is an arrogant git anyway, who cares if he stays here or not," Ron parries, also not approving of their conversation—but for different reasons to her own, obviously.

"My dad's told me stories about his family that he's heard from the Auror investigation team, crazy stuff you won't even hear about in the tabloids. I agree though, he's kind of a weird guy," Harry adds in, with Ginny and the twins nodding in agreement.

"Alright, enough of Zabini," says Ron, holding the glass of egg-nog in front of him again, "now back to my eggnog trick that you were all so quick to dismiss. What I showed before, that was just the starter…"

Their conversation moves onto other topics, for which Hermione was grateful.

Later on, they play the muggle game of 'Cards Against Humanity', although it was the 'wizard' version that herself and Harry had modified the cards into. And because no one had played the game before apart from themselves, it took a while to explain the rules. But soon they were engrossed in the card game, and shared many laughs and joked around for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

"Pass over the beef stew."

Tom hands the dish to Blaise, ladling some stew onto his own plate as well.

Of all the students of Hogwarts, and even in Slytherin house, Tom knew that he was one of the few people that Blaise preferred to spend time with.

Despite being of either pureblood or half-blood status, Blaise's family held a controversial reputation, due mostly in part to his mother's 'habit' of changing husbands all the time—who all died under mysterious circumstances, of course. His mother's rotation of husbands weren't the 'step-fathers' he formed any attachments to, and so he had never bothered to care about any of them.

It made Tom think about the contrast to his own mother, however, who had to solely raise him and care for him. Despite their simple lives where they have relied on the local wizarding community and allowances from the school, she had never attempted to bring anyone into her life—and as proxy—his life, even if she could have. But he shares this understanding with Blaise, of the absence of the fathers in their lives.

Tom decides to ask him about his current situation, which was the the reason that Blaise had opted to stay at Hogwarts this year. "Any new rumours?"

"You'd know if there were," Blaise answers, stirring rice into the stew with his spoon, "I'm tired of the news, and tired still of how my mother involves herself every damn time."

"It's easier to show you don't care, right?"

"Yeah, a lot easier to live like I don't care. And in reality I don't, most of the time. Plus, I'm going to be independent soon, then I can distance myself without any issues," says Blaise, putting his spoon down with a clatter. "But enough of my sopping tale, I want you to tell me something."

Tom looks at him expectantly, as he does when anyone tries to ventures into his personal affairs.

"What was Draco saying to you the other day, before he left school?"

Tom knew this was going to come up soon enough. He had to handle this matter carefully, and so he gives an automatic reply, his voice nonchalant.

"Draco didn't say anything, nothing of importance, anyway."

"He was laughing at you, and I don't think I've ever heard him laugh at you. Not in that tone, at least," says Blaise as he leans in, hanging an arm off the table. "He sounded like a deranged hyena."

Tom doesn't answer straightaway. He takes a deliberate spoonful of his beef stew, and mops his mouth with the corner of a napkin. He makes a show of folding the napkin on the table, and then turns in his seat to look at him before lowering his voice.

"He thinks I have a thing for Pansy Parkinson."

Fake snow dissolves on the now-empty silver platter in from of them. Blaise nods for him to go on.

"I had to explain it's nothing of the sort, you see," Tom continues, inspecting the nails on his left hand, "and reassure him I'm not in competition with him, certainly not over her."

A puzzled expression crosses Blaise's face. "But he doesn't even like her in 'that way'."

Tom looks at him and gives a short laugh. "Exactly. It's why he found this debacle so hilarious—hence the laughter, because he knows me well enough to know I would never consider anything like that." He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. "Draco wants to keep his 'fan-girl' appearance, and I'm more than content to let him continue that. As I repeated to him, I have no interest, and Pansy's all his to take."

They continue eating their dinner, and Blaise doesn't question him again that evening.

He be _damned_ if he ever revealed the true contents of what took place in the conversation with Draco, involving a certain, frustrating bushy-haired witch. Draco really had laughed like a deranged hyena, but only because Tom vehemently tried to deny the accusations spitting out from his mouth.

* * *

After the evening's amusements and a short read of her book after everyone had left the common room, Hermione retires to her dorm room. Changing into her pyjamas, she heads for the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, before going to bed for what she hopes will be a peaceful sleep before Christmas morning. She pulls back the heavy covers, but pauses.

There's a letter on her pillow.

She is sure that there was no letter when she entered the room earlier. She looks at Ginny, but she was fast asleep.

The letter is small, plain coloured and nondescript. She unfurls the edge and reads inside:

_There is an urgent situation I need to discuss with you regarding your upcoming exams. See you on the Third Floor in the classroom opposite of the Trophy Room by 12AM sharp. Do not show this note to anyone, and do not make any mention of it._

_\- Professor Dumbledore_

* * *

Slipping a robe over her pyjamas, Hermione exits the common room and heads off to the classroom. The hallways and corridors are dark, so she lights the tip of her wand for some luminance, but is careful not to direct the light toward the portraits lining the walls.

She hadn't given a second thought as to why Professor Dumbledore had requested to see her at this late of the hour. He was the headmaster, after all, and whatever it was that he wanted to discuss must indeed be important. And she knows the note was specifically from Professor Dumbledore, because it was written in exactly his handwriting with the particular dragon blood ink that she had seen at his desk countless times. If one were to act as an imposter for Professor Dumbledore, there were dire consequences, including the fact that you could be _expelled_ from school. You had to be much too stupid to do something like that.

She just hopes that she isn't in trouble for anything, and she hopes that nothing had gone awry with the exams. What if they were modifying the syllabus? Or what if—and the thought was simply preposterous and unbearable—the board was cancelling an exam, or all exams? She cannot even begin to think of how she would react if that were the case. It frightened her too much.

Finally, she reaches the third floor, and is soon standing in front of the classroom door. She turns down the brass handle, and the door clicks open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be posted in full before Christmas but life got in the way, ah well! This one-shot wrote out too long so I had to break it up, the second part will be up soon though hopefully.
> 
> As always, dear readers, let me know how this story is going so far and what you like, your comments give me the encouragement to keep writing :)
> 
> (also why are the end notes from the first chapter keep adding to the next chapter below, how do I get rid of them?)


	5. Christmas Prank - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!! I hope you enjoy this though!

“Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asks with apprehension as she enters the room. She’s hit first with the scent of roses, and her mouth is left ajar at the sight before her.

The floor was covered entirely with red rose petals. There are no desks and chairs in sight, and the place is almost empty of all furniture except for a velvet love seat in the centre of the room. Warm light is given off by the candles in the walls, where sprigs of holly charmed to glitter are also clinging to the walls. Her awe turns to horror however when she looks up at the streamers of mistletoe hanging down from the ceiling. There are over a hundred, at least.

She’s probably in the wrong location and had stumbled upon a student’s date night.

And there is no sign of Professor Dumbledore, either.

Hermione hears the door open behind her, and she turns, expecting to see her professor and be granted an explanation for the overly decorated room.

She had not in her slightest, however, expected to see _Tom Riddle_, in his bloody _sleeping suit_ with his hair all messy at perfect angles. His pale face is ruddy from exertion, and a dark, shiny lock of hair fell above his eyes. She wishes, oh how she just _wishes_ she could pull it away and make him _fall apart_—

“I’m surprised to see you here, Granger,” Riddle observes coolly, pushing the door closed behind him.

She starts, but straightens herself first and crosses her arms. Her feet feel too warm in their slippers, which was an annoying response from herself.

“I ought to be asking you the same question, Riddle, but first I want to know, where is Professor Dumbledore? He called for me here, if you must know.”

A perplexed expression crosses his face, and he looks down at a note in his hand, similar to the one she held. He looks up, assured this time. 

“The note is fake, and if you can’t tell already, this is a set-up.”

She opposes his observation, which there was no proof for at the moment. “A set-up for what? How do I know you’re not lying?”

He sighs, flicking the note in her direction. She catches it and reads through. It stated that he had to come to this room for a secret matter by 12AM. And that was all. There is no mention of Professor Dumbledore, or any other professor, for that matter.

“So you just came up here because the note said to? You didn’t even bother to know who it’s from first?”

Riddle shrugs, looking over her shoulder and towards the room. “I was bored and had nothing to do.”

That was it? He was _bored_? Hermione really had to question how Riddle had even managed to obtain 13 O.W.L.s., his skills of perception seemed to be seriously lacking.

“You could’ve ended up participating in something illegal, you know,” she retorts, throwing the note back in his direction. He doesn’t attempt to catch and lets it fall to the floor.

He saunters over to her instead. “And? You’re not in an illegal position right now, aren’t you?” He circles her, and she doesn’t like how his presence reminds her of a hawk circling its prey.

“All alone, up in a classroom out of hours.” He stops in front of her, hands clasped behind his back. “With no teacher, no Professor Dumbledore to supervise you.” He tries to hold their eye contact, but she looks down instead because it felt less intimate. It doesn’t help, however, as she notes how his skin is exposed from the night shirt unbuttoned at the top. She swallows.

“Proper, dutiful, legal _Miss Granger_.”

She couldn’t—this all felt like too much, way _too much_, and she had to _leave_. Professor Dumbledore or not, she could not be present in Riddle’s company for any longer.

“And now, I’m _legally_ about to leave,” she spins around and makes a run to the door to turn the handle.

The handle makes a rattling noise, but doesn’t open.

Cursing under her breath, she retrieves her wand and mutters an _Alohomora_. The doors remains locked. She looks back at Riddle, who remained standing where he was. He appeared just as confused as her, which she hadn’t been expecting. But still, one can never know what he wanted to show the world and what he tried to hide.

“What sort of tricks are you playing at, Riddle?”

His face hardens and he sneers at her, “I’m not playing at anything, Granger.” He walks over and

also attempts to open the door, but physically opening the door by hand and using spells fail him, too. He curses and bangs on the door, looking away.

Her fingers grasp at her forehead, trying to think. “Okay, there must be another way out. I’ll figure something out soon.”

Riddle goes over to the love seat in the middle of the room and sprawls across it, crossing his leg over the other. He gazes impassively at their surroundings. “Who set this up, anyway? It all looks so nauseating.”

“It was probably someone’s romantic idea for a date night,” Hermione contests, flicking her wand at the door lock and handle, trying different incantations, “not that you would know anything about romance. Since when have _you_ ever been with someone?”

He stiffens, eyes narrowing at her. “Not your concern if I have or not, is it?” Leaning on his arms, he gives her a once-over and Hermione is tempted to throw a horn-growing jinx at his head. She almost does, before he speaks again.

“And how would you know if I haven’t been involved with someone, what makes you sure of that, Granger?”

Oh he was being an absolute buffoon to think that he could hide the status of his relationship from others. Everyone knew everyone’s business at Hogwarts, enemies or not. And Mr-I-think-I’m-so-perfect-Riddle, had not been with anyone, ever.

“It’s painfully _obvious_ when you’re always sulking around in the library when all the couples in your year head over to Hogsmeade on their dates.”

Riddle then responds in a way that she hadn’t expected. He actually _laughs_ at her.

She doesn’t know how to react at first, so she cuts him with a glare instead, arms crossed. He stops laughing for just a moment.

“You think you’re so experienced in these frivolous matters, and you think you know so much about how all this dating business works.” He was lying down on the seat now, twirling his wand through his fingers. “But you _don’t_, and yet you _still_ feel the need to justify that you’re an expert on the topic, and that—that’s bloody _hilarious_.”

“You’re wrong! As a matter of fact, I _do_ have experience—”

He laughs again, but she ignores him and continues on.

“—because I have been with Victor Krum, he was my boyfriend, if you don’t know.”

Riddle stops laughing, and sits up straight. Gone was the callous attitude, a serious expression had taken over his face.

“Keyword here, Granger—Was. He _was_ your—_boyfriend,_” he snarls, voice full of venom as his hand grips the plush armrest. “And quite a lousy one at that, I must say. You two barely lasted together. And anyway, a Quidditch-playing oaf hardly qualifies as someone date-worthy, but of course, you’d go after someone for all their fame and glory.”

In a haze of red, Hermione sees nothing except for his self-satisfied, haughty face smirking at her.

She rounds on him, striding across the room, wand in hand and pointed at his face.

“Shut up, Riddle! Just _shut _the bloody hell_ up_ you _mean_, _vile_, _horrible_ piece of!—”

Without warning, the candles flicker out, and the room is submerged in darkness.

Hermione didn’t have time to react as she loses her footing and, slippers flying off, stumbles onto the floor in a graceless heap among the rose petals. There’s a burning pain up her ankle, and she bites her tongue to stop her cry of pain. _No way_ is she going to let Riddle see her like this, injured and helpless.

She hears his footsteps around her.

“No, don’t come near me.” Ignoring her feeble attempt to stop him, she feels him crouch down beside her.

“Granger, I’m not going to murder you,” he says in a tone a bit too gentle for her liking. She doesn’t like how he was talking like this, and she doesn’t like how he was a bit too _close_ to her.

There’s some shuffling of movement, and as her eyes adjust to the darkness, she can make out his shape in front of her.

“Let me have a look at your ankle,” he commands, wand lighting up with a _Lumos. _He hovers it over the affected area, noting the swelling.

It was too quiet, all she can hear is her own breathing in the dark. And why does she feel so damn _warm_? Again, _too much_.

Hermione abruptly pulls her leg away, ignoring the hiss of pain. “I can fix it myself, I don’t need your help!”

“I never said I was going to fix it!”

“Then just go away!”

With an exasperated sigh, he stands up. “Can you at least get up?”

He knows better than for her to ask for any assistance. She straightens her leg, and pushes herself up off the floor. With a sharp inhale, she slowly moves into an upright position. Riddle gives a quick look over, but doesn’t try to hold her or anything, for which she is grateful.

“Good. The injury isn’t too bad, nothing broken, only a sprain. Walk over to the seat.”

“Whatever.”

She limps over to the seat and lowers herself onto it, being careful to keep her leg straight.

With a wave of his wand, Riddle points at the the space they were occupying on the seat, enclosing it in a soft light emanating from an orb hanging above them between the mistletoe.

Well, it was certainly creative of him. She knew how to perform the spell, too, Hermione thinks with pride. “Didn’t know you were also an expert on illuminations, Riddle.”

“I try new things now and then, sometimes they work, and at other times they don’t. And then when that happens, it’s just considered dangerous.”

It sounded the suspicious, the way he phrased the “_dangerous_” part. And the fact that he had admitted to ‘trying’ things out. How shifty of him. “Hang on…it was _you_! You caused that explosion in the potions room!” He leans back into the seat and gives her a lazy smile. She ignores the flip in her stomach. “But how did it happen?”

“I was experimenting.”

“Experimenting what?”

“On how to create a Philosopher’s Stone.”

Hermione face-palms, and brushes the stray curls away from her forehead. Does she even _want_ to know the reasoning behind his so-called “experiment”? She thinks not. Definitely not right now, at least.

“I’ll explain it some other time. Now let me see your ankle again, and I’ll actually try to heal it.” Before she can retaliate, Riddle moves off the seat and crouches in front of her. But she’s wary, and moreover, sure that she can fix her ankle herself. Even if she first had to learn the spells to do so.

“You really don’t have to, Riddle. I can fix it myself later.”

Retrieving his wand, he looks up. “But I want to, because I’ve learnt the spells and know how to do this right now.”

“Okay, but don’t—” Don’t what? She can trust him to play healer for a short while, if anything went wrong she would make sure he faced the consequences. “Just, don’t mess anything up. Or try anything silly.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” he replies sarcastically. Hermione gives an eye-roll and ignores his comment, letting him inspect.

He grasps the base of her foot in one hand, and drifts his wand over with the other, beforemurmuring a couple of spells, some of which she picks up, including _Episkey._ It was strange, watching him look so entranced. She notes the furrow in his brows, the sharp concentration in his eyes.

This was his calling, she muses. “What made you interested in healing?"

He doesn’t answer straightaway, and waves his wand over her ankle until it is veiled in a blue glow.

“I want to be renowned someday for my abilities to mend, and to create—” he answers pensively, not looking up. “To renew, replicate. To bring something, or someone back, from the brink of death.” He places his wand down, and holds her foot in both his hands. She ignores the warmth of them. “And to face death itself. Not to surpass it, but rather challenge it. I’ve seen the way the healers tended to my mother over the years when she was ill, and helped her restore her magic. I want to take those skills and further apply them, to prevent such instances from happening in the first place.”

“That’s both quite noble and ambitious of you,” Hermione replies. She chooses not to delve on the information regarding his mother, and what it meant that her magic was ‘restored’. She had never heard that about her before, and wonders vaguely if anyone else knew, too. It seemed unlikely when she thought about it. 

Riddle doesn’t answer and, wand in hand again, continues to work on her injury.

“Hermione, why do you despise me so much?” 

_Again_ with her name, and the way he said it, and the way it rolled so _pleasantly_ off his tongue, it made her want to push him away.

“You’re asking me as though it’s such a mystery. You _know_ very well why, Riddle. I don’t need to reenact the memory from _that_ ill-fated day.”

He looks up, eyes looking deceptively pleading. He knows how to play the part well. “Come on now, how can you keep a grudge for something so insignificant? I was younger back then, I didn’t know, truly.”

“For you it might be insignificant, but for me it wasn’t. Calling me a—what was it again? A _“bossy, insufferable, and obnoxious know-it-all”,_ and then proceeding to say it was the reason why I hardly had any friends—in front of practically _everyone_ on stage during the competition…It was like something from my worst nightmares.” The competition on defensive spells theory had taken place in front of both their year groups, and she had won over him in that round, so he chose to respond in the most stinging way. “I was so humiliated, and made fun of for _weeks_.”

“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice, hands moving away from her ankle, leaving it cold. She hadn’t noticed when the pain had subsided. “I didn’t know my words affected you to such an extent.” He pauses, picking off a few petals from his shirt. “But again, I’m sorry, and I mean it, as I did back then, too.”

“It’s…fine now, I guess,” she replies with apprehension, and mulls over his admission. Perhaps he’s right, it was such a long time ago, it made no sense to hold onto an old grudge. But her pride won’t let him in so easily.

They don’t exchange anymore words, and the eery silence of the room takes over.

Hermione considers getting up to unlock them out of the room, and if the door still failed to open, she would just have to break it down.

But then, she feels him grasp her ankle again, so _gentle_. And the pads of his thumbs rub circles over it. Small, harmless circles, the pressure barely there. However, Riddle doesn’t acknowledge them, and speaks again, unaffected by his actions.

In that moment however, she forgets how to _breathe._

“Whatever I said then, it was all reactionary—”

Slowly, _too_ slowly, his fingers graze up her leg, palms flat against her skin, and her breath catches another sharp hitch. Fight this—fight _him_, and run away, because she _hates_ him, doesn’t she?—

“Like you, I’ve always been competitive when it came to my studies—”

The hem of her trouser is pushed up her calve, and his fingers slide up and trace over the dimples in her knee. Her own hands dig into the the seat below her, nails piercing the velvet cushion. She can barely hear him now. She’s going to _faint_, she’s sure of it, because he’s a _fake_ and he can charm anyone to get what he wants and she hates him, she _hates_ him—

“It was only natural for us both to be defensive—”

Up, up, _up_ his hands went, pushing the cotton fabric past her knee. Heart thundering in her chest,she leans against the back of the seat, failing to keep straight. _No one_ had made her feel like this before. Really, he’s just charming her, he just wants some information from her, _no way_, is any of this genuine, it just _couldn’t_ be.

“When you’ve been the top student for a while, it’s not easy making space for another student who’s just as brilliant—”

His hands lay firmly on her thighs, and he looks up at her. Shaking, she leans on her arms, and sits forward again, to really _see_ him this time. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips—they are parted. But it’s his eyes, they are dark and flashing and _alive_. And they hold the oncoming warning of a storm. A storm she was ready to _drown_ in and _just let go_—

She feels the rich silk of his voice wrap smoothly around her mind before she understands the meaning of his next words.

“Tell me, Hermione,” his voice is feverish, and his throat bobs as his fingers dig into her legs. “What was it like when that oaf Krum kissed you?”

“I—What?”

“_Tell me._”

“It was…okay, I suppose.” She swallows thickly, shaking her head and holding onto the last bit of composure in her vicinity. “I mean, I was new to it back then, and don’t remember much, anyway.”

Hermione thinks it’s _unfair_ that Riddle was able to corner her and ask about such personal details, and make _her_ feel conflicted. She decides to throw his interrogating ways back at him. To _fight_ him. “But I’m sure _you_ know all about it, because you must be so _experienced_, Riddle, in such _“frivolous matters”, _as you inferred earlier_._”

In less than a blink, she’s pushed back flat against the love seat, and the light from the makeshift torch glares into her eyes until _he_ was above her, pinning her down by the shoulders and blocking off the illumination. Apart from the damned mistletoe, his silhouette is all she sees.

“_Don’t_ try to mock me, or say anything you’ll regret later.”

“Make me, _Tom_.”

He closes the distance between them, and his mouth covers hers—or jams onto it, rather.

He kisses her with an urgency, a desperation, as though he had longed for this, as though he had _dreamt_ of this, but _no_, he couldn’t’ve, _surely not. _But her mind has at last switched off and she can no longer comprehend her thoughts, because all she can feel are his slightly chapped lips and the taste of peppermint and the remnants of tea.

His kiss however, is not gentle. His teeth scrape her bottom lip, and he bites down, hard—_“Ouch!”. _He breathes a muffled _“sorry”_ against her lips, and with a light _smack_ to the side of his head, she pulls back for just a moment, before she brings her hand up to cup his cheek, guiding his mouth.

Her other hand holds onto his shoulder as he threads his fingers through her hair, and she lets out a sigh. It felt so _good, _so _right,_ and she wonders if he can feel the rapid beating of her heart against his chest, if he can _hear_ it.

They break apart for a moment, foreheads touching, warm breaths fanning across each other. She tries to speak up, to say something, _anything_. But no words leave her mouth, and all she can smell are the bloody roses.

Tom—_Tom_, _her Tom_, leans into the crook of her shoulder, and places soft kisses on the side of her neck, down to her clavicle. She feels his tongue roll across the heated skin, and then his mouth trails back up her neck. A moan escapes her mouth and she hears him growl low in his throat.

“_Hermione_,” Tom rasps against her jaw. “What are you doing to me?”

She sits up on her elbows, moving her legs away to push him back, and then she straddles him. “I want to know the same, Tom.”

He pulls her closer, and she leans down to kiss his neck, his throat, and _that_ spot where his shirt is open, where he feels hot and damp against her own burning mouth, and then she moves up, capturing his mouth in hers. She runs her hands through his hair at the back, and brings her fingers forward to sift through the silky locks at his forehead. She _pulls_, and she knows that he’s fallen apart in her arms as his hands touch her _everywhere_, down her arms, up her waist, over her thighs, her hips, her tailbone—

It felt perfect and utterly divine, and she knows she’s insane right now and will have a million questions tomorrow, but right now, nothing mattered, nothing else mattered except for the touch of his hands and the taste of his lips. She grinds onto his lap, and, _oh_, is that his?—

_BANG!_

Hermione and Tom break apart with a jerk, steadying themselves on the seat to watch the unexpected spectre of fireworks unfold in front of them.

The crackers explode into loud colours of purple, green and red, and take the shape of roses, cupids, and crudely drawn love hearts.

A firework whizzes past their shoulders to the other side of the room, leaving a shower of sparks and then returning its way to the front.

“This is completely cheesy, but also somewhat impressive, I have to admit,” says Riddle—_Tom? _His voice not entirely collected yet. Now that her senses are back, she’s hesitant in addressing him. Everything will be different now between them, so very different.

An empty firework cracker lands at their feet, and Hermione picks it up, noting the initials of none other than the Weasley twins.

The fake notes, the decorations, the enchantments on the door and the room, it all made sense. And she’s hardly surprised. After all, did she expect Ginny to keep quiet about her quarrel with Tom? Such a clever prank.

There’s a click at the front, and then the door creeks open. _Of course, the timing of it all, the cheeky Weasley siblings do deserve credit._

“We ought to leave before the room locks us in again,” Hermione says as she stands up, fixing her robe and smoothing her hair back, and then retrieves her slippers from the floor. She must look a hot mess right now.

Tom follows suit, pulling his nightshirt down and adjusting the waistband of his pants. Hermione looks away, then feels silly for doing so because they had just participated in the most questionable of activities.

They make their way across the room, before stopping in the door frame, and turn to each other.

“Who shall I thank for this date night?” Tom asks, amusement lighting his eyes.

“Redheads. That’s all I’m saying for now,” Hermione replies, shifting on her spot. “But you’re still not a saint in my eyes, remember that.”

Tom doesn’t reply, and instead leans in to hold her hands, placing a kiss on her forehead. How _dramatic_ of him, how terribly like him. She wishes he will do this to her _forever_.

“Don’t think this will dissuade me from beating your O.W.L. scores,” Hermione chides, pointing her finger into his chest.

Tom grins down at her. “I’d never expect you to. Believe me when I say that I look forward to the day you pass my marks.”

Close to each other, and without any unnecessary distance, they head back to their dorm rooms. Hermione cannot think to whether scold Ginny or thank her. Perhaps she will not recall the events of this night to her at all. She will keep these moments a secret, close to her heart and away from prying eyes. They will be aware of the outcomes of their plan soon anyway, she reflects with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Ya’ll, this was one of the most difficult chapters to write, especially the kiss scene. Like, I’m all good with verbose interactions, but atrocious at trying to portray lovey-dovey stuff, I just can’t do it organically and need to think about it a lot. Anyway. Please let me know how this chapter went! What were your favourite parts/scenes? I’d love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Btw, I’m also on Tumblr at hurrian-hymn, hit me up for any questions and head canons espec related to Tom/Hermione. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao who the heck shows off their library search skills? What a bunch of nerds honestly
> 
> Dear readers, do tell me your thoughts and feelings about this chapter! How is the characterisation? I'm nervous as I've never written Hermione or Tom before, but I want to do them justice.
> 
> This is how I picture Tom if he was 'normal' - If Merope survived to raise him(and no 'Heir of Slytherin' for the sake of this AU). He may not be Voldemort but he's still…Tom. I adore his canon characterisation, but the idea for this fic had being hopping around my head for a while and wanted to be let out.
> 
> I am also currently working on the next one-shot, which will be from Tom's POV.


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